Welcome to the Man Cave

While I may have embraced the man cave lifestyle, I have not exactly been quick to show off my humble bachelor pad just yet (call me crazy but I figured I should probably wait until the visitor in question at least had a chair to sit on and glass to drink from). I let one friend come up a week after I moved in while she waited for me to finish getting ready for the bar, and god bless her soul she lied to me the whole time telling me how cute everything was (I'd like to thank the $5 bottle of CVS wine for those complements). However, all visitors (and by all I mean 2) have not been so embracing of the situation. 

A few nights ago, I went to see a friend perform his comedy act downtown. Afterwards, since I lived in the area, I invited him back to hang out for a little. Now, due to the fact that I had more whiskey than sense in me at the time, I forgot that the man cave wasn't exactly ready for visitors, but I figured I was dealing with a dude. Dudes don't realize or care about things like that, right? I mean to them, an apartment is an apartment, a bed is a bed, and any decoration that doesn't involve a picture of Scarface or a playboy bunny is a waste of money and wall space. . . ummmm, not so much, as I quickly discovered.
Before we even set foot inside of the apartment, I heard the words "Oh my god" muffled between slight chuckles. He then proceeded to give me a lecture on the Walmart futon I was using to sleep on and about how a bed is something you use everyday for multiple activities and an entity which really merits investment in a quality piece of furniture. Woops. I wound up telling him that I had a real bed being delivered soon to shut him up. . .that was a lie. I'm sorry I'm not sorry that instead, I do have a pair of the cutest little lace up booties on the way! Which stands to reason why the walk in closet is the one decorated room in the apartment.
I mean, looking back in hindsight, I should have put 2 and 2 together. I had been to his apartment before and unlike my man cave, he had more of a man hut. Not quite the man palace, but definitely a few steps up from the man cave. I mean, for christ sakes the man had a vacuum and a rug cleaning machine ( I mean, in comparison to my place I was impressed that he had furniture period but I figured you guys might need a little more convincing). My visit even came complete with a cup of hot cocoa. I might as well have checked into the four seasons. Now, while the man cave is far from being a "home" just yet, it is not like I am living like a complete dude. I mean, I can still vividly remember, and I kid you not, waking up my sophomore year of college on an air mattress on the floor  in the midst of a true man cave. I sat up to see what time it is, and to my surprise found the air mattress acting as an island in the middle of a huge body of water.What's worse is, when I began shaking him furiusly to let him know a pipe must have burst or something, he told me to calm down and go back to sleep, that they had had that problem for weeks and would maybe eventually fix it, but for now as long as they wore shoes it wasn't that big of a deal. Ladies and Gentleman I swear I speak the truth. I mean I may not own a vacuum (or even a rug to vacuum just yet) but at least I know I won't be floating away in the middle of the night! Plus, I did wind up upgrading slightly and making the hot cocoa investment for the cave. Even so, I think a little trip to Ikea may be required before I introduce anyone else to the cave of manliness. 

Emergency Room Epiphanies

There's nothing like a casual trip to the ER to put your life into perspective. Yesterday, after posting a new blog entry for all you fabulous followers, I started to get ready for work when I decided it would be a good idea to throw a few curls into my hair. Sounds like a pretty lame start to the day, right? Don't worry, it gets better. Anyways, seeing as the man cave has yet to be fully decorated, there is only one small rug in the bathroom, thus leaving a good deal of tile floor exposed. Normally this wouldn't matter except for the fact that I have, since birth, had this chronic problem of flooding the bathroom when I shower. It does not matter how high the bathtub is, how large the shower curtain is, how secure the shower door is -- I will still find a way to create a small lake outside of the bathing area. As was the case yesterday when I seemed to install a small swimming pool in my bathroom after my morning shower. Seeing as I was in a bit of a hurry, I wasn't exactly paying attention (another pretty big problem of mine) and seemed to miss the pool, fall and take a curling iron to the face. Yes folks, I slapped myself in the face with the curling iron.
As I quickly scrambled to my feet and over to the mirror to assess the damage, slews of curse words poured from my mouth and tears began to fill my eyes, I watched as my chin and lip began to change color and double in size. I was certain that my future would now consists of part time acting gigs as "the blob" and guest appearances in the circus as "the girl with no lips" (I'm not dramatic at all lol). Furthermore, seeing as I had just moved from across the country I had no idea what the hell to do next. First of all, I don't have a freaking doctor yet, second of all LA is kinda weird I didn't know if they had heard of things like First Med before, and the lastly, the thought of having to walk into an emergency room and be "that girl" amongst people with actual problems was mortifying. So, I did what any other strong, self-respecting, independent woman of the world would do. . .I called my Mommy. After sending a series of mortifying pictures that have already been erased so as to never again be seen by human eyes, she was able to show them to some doctors who told me I needed to see a plastic surgeon straight away. Like what?! Anyway, I began asking anyone and everyone I knew in LA if they knew of anyone. I mean, what else was I going to do? I usually turn to google for problem such as this, but I figured if I tried to google "plastic surgeons in LA" my computer would explode from all the search results. I mean I'm pretty sure my freaking maintenance man does plastic surgery on the side. Long story short, one of my friend's Dads turned out to be a doctor and he said I needed to go to an emergency room and have someone look at me in person asap to assess the damage.
So, there I was, on a bus to Cedars-Sinai, in the middle of LA, by myself about to play the role of "that girl." I got to the emergency room and tried not to laugh at myself as I explained the story to the check-in lady and two different nurses before finally taking a seat in the waiting area. Now, I have never been good in hospitals. Doctors make me nervous, germs freak me out, and past encounters give me looming anxiety. As I sat there next to people coughing, bleeding and crying, I felt my stomach slowly tying itself in knots. And then, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, I burst out in tears. Not because I was afraid of what the doctors might say about my face, or because of the past traumatic experiences that I associate with hospitals, but instead because I didn't know who I was going to list as my emergency contact. For the past four years of my life, it had always been my best friend, with whom I shared an apartment and pretty much everything in my life. Now, I was in a a new city, with new people, and pretty much new god damn everything, EXCEPT a new emergency contact. Now, please folks, give me a little credit, the tears of course did stem from the deeper issue of moving away from everyone close to me, rather than jus having to give some cocamame name to put on a piece of paper in case I passed out before the doctor discharged me. But none the less, it forced me to put a lot of things into perspective. When I walked out of the hospital, I still missed my friends and family and would have given anything to see one of their faces when I walked out of those automatic doors, but at the same time there is something to be said for the reassurance in your ability to take care of yourself and stand strong as an independent individual in this whirlwind world in which we live.

Living in a Man's World. . .Or at least in his Apartment

I have been lovingly referring to my little K-town studio as the "man cave" since I moved in just three short weeks ago. Partly because it is my single gal bachelor pad, but mostly because it kind of just reminds me of some of the dudes' apartments I used to see back in college. You know, the ones filled with furniture that looked older than their grandparents, decorations that consisted of sports illustrated posters, and a kitchen filled with natty light and protein bars. Now, while my apartment has not quite reached that status just yet, it is still far from one of those super cute girlie places with painted walls, framed friendship quotes and pillows used solely for decoration.

As a girl, the need to decorate and, in essence, create a home is somewhat innate to our nature - I think it's called nesting, or something ( that could only be when we're pregnant and prepping for the rugrat's arrival though, so don't quote me on that one). Anyways, it's not that I don't have that same desire, I mean of course I want to live in a little place that looks like an Anthropologie showroom. However, as someone who works two jobs and goes to school, time and money have both played a factor in the  delayed nesting process. Not to mention that I have a somewhat flawed decision making process that caused me to purchase a purse three times the price of the "bed" I am currently sleeping on ( I use quotation marks because it is in fact a folded out futon, rather than an actual bed). You know what though? I do not for a second regret that decision. . .hence why I have begun to embrace than man cave lifestyle.

From Downtown to Koreatown

After encountering a rather difficult living situation with two other fashion students upon the move to LA, I decided it was time to find my own place. While four years of living with my best friends back on the east coast had left me feeling as if I would never want to live alone, four weeks with my worst enemies here on the west coast left me feeling as if I never wanted to live with anyone ever again. That being said, I quickly began the hunt for my own apartment. After looking at numerous concrete boxes that would cause me to kill myself if I had to live there (that is, of course, assuming that one of my lovely neighbors didn't do it first), and countless units with exposed brick and city views that would force me to turn tricks in order afford the rent, an angel named Joe (aka my little leasing buddy) called me and spoke of this fabulous little studio in Koreatown for a price that would not require me to turn to self inflicted pain or prostitution in order to live there. Skeptical but hopeful, I decided to meet Joe one Saturday morning to see this supposed utopia.  Well folks, the man spoke the truth! Now, I by no means am trying to tell you that I live in the Ritz Carlton, not at all, actually, but for a multi-room studio in LA with windows and rent under $1000 (utilities included), it may as well have been. The next day I put the unit on hold and anxiously anticipated move-in day.
Three weeks later and a week before I was supposed to move in, I went to sign my lease and drop off my first month's rent. I was filled with excitement at the prospect of being able to finally move into my own place. . .until I got off the bus and saw the building staring back at me in the distance. All of a sudden I began to panic, what the f@%& was I doing?! I moved across the god damn country without knowing anyone or anything about this weird ass place, and now I was about to sign my life away agreeing to stay here for a year and pay rent on a place by myself, to buy furniture, to call a place known as Koreatown home, like what?! I sat down on the curb and put my head between my knees as I began to take deep breaths. Great, I thought, let me start to freak out my new neighbors before I even move in. After allowing myself about a 10 minute mid-twenties crisis, I pulled myself together and went to sign the papers, reminding myself that life was too short to sit around freaking out about things that have already been done or worrying about what would happen in the future. Best to just keep calm, carry on and take it a day at a time (armed with Raid, of course, as I quickly learned).

NY Girl in an LA World

After graduating college, I decided to make the big move from NY to LA. After spending four years pursuing a degree in French, Spanish and Japanese with minors in Journalism and Art History, I had finally decided what I wanted to do with my life . . . go to fashion school. Makes complete sense, right? Truth be told, I think it just took me four years to get the balls to actually go for what I wanted instead of trying to find something that was more practical to do with my life, (not that the dying field of journalism or the oh so profitable world of art history were much more practical goals). Anywho, there I was a young, bright eyed, bushy tailed, college grad at the end of June lugging my overweight suitcases through security at JFK. Having traveled to 20 different countries over the course of the past few years, the prospect of traveling to another state did not seem quite as daunting, well, that is, until I got here. It wasn't until a few weeks after being in LA that I finally began to process what I had done. It was like I had been drunk and then woke up to find glitter in my bellybutton, someone else's pants on and an empty bottle of jack, causing me to question what become of my life. Only in this case, it was more like I woke up to the sound of the skype ring tone with crazy roommates from the mid-west, a leopard print wheely backpack (listen - they're cool in fashion school) and a tap bus pass, slapping me across the face with the realization that toto was not in freaking Kansas anymore. Since then, I have managed to shake the crazies from the midwest and embrace the crazies from the bus. While LA will never be NY, it is slowly becoming home.